The Comfort of Tomorrow
by Supercaptain
Summary: I have to tell my Angel. Nothing is ever safe. Noir Coda, AU. ClexThat means Slash.


Title: The Comfort of Tomorrow

Author: Supercaptain

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I'm merely borrowing them.

Summary: I have to tell my Angel. Nothing is ever safe

Author Notes: A line has been shamelessly lifted from _The Marathon Man_

Warning: Slash, Clex. Coda for Noir

"_Is it safe?"_

"_No."_

I have to tell my Angel. Nothing is ever safe.

But he waits for me anyway. Between the old store house miles outside of town and his little apartment in the Slums, we have our space. These are the places my kisses can find his and my lips can lay claim to the one person I know who was made for me.

My Angel

* * *

It looks like a random accident, not so random when I find my breaks won't work. Have I finally pushed my Pops to his limit or is some other big stick swinging dick trying to shuffle the deck? I don't put it pass the coppers to have done me in. I've double crossed more than my fair share of those on the straight and narrow and those working the skids.

The sound of crumpling metal is louder than the Macy's Day Parade. The world is suddenly too bright and I feel weightless. Surrounded by nothing and everything, I am not scared. I'm flying, me the Crown Prince of the speak easies back alley brawling, I'm flying to heaven. Then, I open my eyes, my chest burned worse than ingesting a hundred glasses of swill from the Talon.

Then, he's there, seeming to hover over me. Water cascading like the rain from the vein-like inky tresses.

My Angel.

Religion's never been my thing, a little too staunch and stiff, all old ladies and platitude tossing. It's too slow from this life of mine. But, I have no problem being blasphemous; then and now, he was my savior.

* * *

"_Will you come back?"_

"_Yes."_

There's a time when he's gone. He's missing in my life and I wonder again, if I dreamed up the face of salvation. It wouldn't be the first time that my mind has put forth things that really weren't there. Like with my wife, my head said it was love, but my heart…didn't know how to say it wasn't.

So, I go on through life, drinking, smoking too much and sleeping too little. Running myself ragged, because I'm too afraid to slow down. There always seems to be something or someone on my trail, just waiting to cut me down. I walk through life sidestepping everyone, except when it's necessary.

When I find that feeling again, the one of weightlessness, it comes so suddenly and I know that my Angel had returned.It makes me feel special to think he came to the city to find me. Placed himself at the periphery of my life and waited for me to find him.

He's there, dressed in a fine black suit with the subtlest white stripes. Perfectly spaced, as if they have my fingers in mind. His hair is so different from that day, but I'd know that shockingly dark hair anywhere. It's slick and glossy, and I want to disrupt the order it represents.

My Angel places his fingers on the keys of the baby grand, and I feel transcended. It complements the singer well. Her voice is low, has a drag to it, the way you would expect with velvet, but when my Angel plays, his song is no simple accompaniment. It speaks to me, low and husky in my ears, rubbing at my cheeks, expecting promises.

I make no promises to anyone, except him.

Our eyes lock and I seem to breathe for the first time. It all comes together, the music, the cigarettes, the booze.

The song ends with house clapping lowly. I catch My Angel's eye. The light in those emerald pools seems to brighten, like striking a match in the dark, the fuse has been lit.

A nod.

A whisper.

A kiss.

My Angel takes me home.

* * *

"_This is a sin."_

"_Maybe."_

My Angel isn't religious, but he has a healthy respect for those things that have always been revered by heaven. Love. Honor. Fidelity. This is everything I was supposed to give another. I was wrong then—unfaithful in my ignorance. Now, I'm faithful to the one I owe my life to.

He stands there by the sink. His undershirt stark white and damp, it clings to his chest and back, accentuating the curves and valleys of his muscles. I watch him from across the room, a tendril of smoke rises from my mouth. I am a dragon breathing fire, burning everything in my path, save for my Angel. He turns on the faucet and water pours into his glass. It's a true show of mechanics, the bunching and release of his muscles, the parting of those supple coral lips, the suggestion of tongue that is subdued by the rush of water from the glass. A stray drop diverges from the path between those lips. Choosing instead to slid down that perfect curve from mouth to chin. It rebels and is punished accordingly, it hangs by those unseen forces that exist between the realms of gods and science, and I wish that I was there to catch it, to savor the flavor that was my Angel.

My Angel smiles. He's caught me again, staring helplessly, because when I'm near him he's all I can see. In my dark corner, the air is a haze. Smoke curls from the tip of my cigarette. He wants me to quit, I will eventually. I have a love of the burn. When he looks at me, I feel the heat, even in the shadowed corners of his apartment. It's hot. Like the heat wave, he sets me aflame with each new touch. It's delicious and agonizing.

The air is thick, but smells faintly of lemonade and his apple pie. What can I say; my Angel has a bit of a sweet tooth.

He leaves the kitchen and I hear the water run in the bathroom. There's no need for words. Since the day, he returned to me, we have been running on instinct, sweet, pure and absolute. Like destiny, the things that happen between us are just meant to be.

My Angel refuses to take a thing from me. No gifts have passed through my hands, except for his skin and the bathtub. It's perfect for our above average frames. Between the still clear waters, there's a reprieve from the heat, and the freedom to uncoil, like a spring, watch my Angel's curls fall, remove the grime from life in this city. Skin on skin, breathing in tandem, the only music in the room is the sound of sloshing of water.

I finally understand when his mouth finds mine. Peace, be still.

* * *

"_What about your wife?"_

"_She'll leave me. I know she will."_

I hoped. My wife had a way of being far more vindictive, and imaginative than I. For a girl raised in the confines of the idyllic of the heart of America, she possessed a heart darker than any alley in this city. I try to love her, but I fail over and over again. She stopped loving me a long time ago. Her tally of men that she's invited to our bed far exceeds mine. None could ever hold a candle to my Angel.

Most nights, I can sleep with his head on my chest. Those damp curls are a playground to my fingers. When day comes, I hardly remember what happened once my eyes are shut, except for my Angel being there, and us being happy. I lie there, hoping it lasts forever—pray that the feeling in the pit of his stomach can be eased by a cigarette.

I find my smokes in my pants and opt for both. The best thing about this little hole in the wall shoebox is the window in the bedroom. I can sit here like a sentry, watching the rain soaked world and the world that full of peace and calm, and smiles that rivals the sun. I watch him sleep, his hands clutching the spot where I just was. I hate feeling this way, restless, and in need of the burn, something painful to keep my happiness at appropriate levels. Sometimes, I grow restless, and my thoughts feel heavier than a bag of bricks. My Angel deserves to sleep, find the rest that this world doles out piteously.

I stand by the window watching the world. Beyond my perch, it's all the same, dark, dreary, full of deadbeats, and the soon to be dead. But here, this place, is warm and could be safe haven against all the storms. The streetlight paints the room gray and black, I prefer to think it's silver. That makes the memory all the more savory; my Angel washed in tones of darkness and light. Peaceful he slumbers as I stand guard between the chaos and the darkness.

* * *

"_She knows…"_

"_She's not letting me go."_

She knows and we're doomed. After a day of the hustle and dealing with every fledgling newcomer ready to climb the tower to industry and crime, the last thing I expected was for my wife to actually be home. She's reclining on the sofa with a drink in hand; I have it on record that she never drinks. Her eyes bore into me, and she takes a healthy swallow of whiskey. Maybe, I never knew her. She doesn't flinch—doesn't move a muscle in response to the rolling burn down her throat. She drops the glass and slinks over to me, her body pressing against mine, and my nose is assailed by the faint scent of her gardenia perfume, so sweet until it's cloying.

She rubs against me seeking a response that I am not inclined to give. When she finds nothing, her eyes sparkle; seem to do the opposite of my Angel's. She wraps her hands around my neck and pulls my head down to hers. The kiss is slow and bitter. I gird myself for the coming attack. A kiss to the corner of my mouth, before she hisses beside my cheek. "End it now." The photographs drop on the desk beside me, fanning out in a dizzying display of moments I remember all too well.

She saunters out of the room. There's no need for me to see her face, because I already know she's smiling.

* * *

"_We can't run."_

"_Why not?"_

He only denied me once, when I asked him to run away with me. Told me that he just couldn't leave, that the time wasn't right, when all I could see was the very opposite. I could take him somewhere, far away from here, where two men being together didn't raise an eyebrow. Where's that you ask? I'm not too sure myself. It's just a hunch—a tip I picked up from some passing through rogue with a Big Easy clip to his tongue. If it exists, I'll find it, because there's nothing I wouldn't do for my Angel.

My Angel has to go his way, as far from me as possible. Things could get far messier than I could possibly contain. And I'd die before my Angel becomes a casualty of this war

on territory and debate on transitive morality.

* * *

"_Is it safe?"_

"_No."_

If there is a second chance for a black hearted louse like me, then maybe, I'll have the courage on that day to say 'yes'.

We never say goodbye. Instead, I inhale his scent in one draw, and commit that too, to memory.

We part at daybreak. He leaves when the hallway is filled with light. He casts a look over his shoulder, his eyes speaking volumes that I'd asked him not to say. My Angel leaves me for parts unknown. It's too much of a risk for me to know, because I'll always want to follow. Footsteps down the hall recede into silence from the void of activities in the city. It's too early to work, but just late enough to die just a little bit.

There will be a day when I will follow and be whole again. But for now, I'm back where I started.

In the darkness.

"_The Stuff of Legends, huh, Lex?"_

"_Only when tomorrow comes."_


End file.
